4,572 days later
by therewithasmile
Summary: She gave a half-glance to the side, and maybe - in her sleep deprived state - she thought, for those fleeting seconds, that he was beautiful. / Post-canon shikatema drabble collection. In the newest short, Temari can't sleep.
1. routine

_Hi and welcome to my newest drabbledump for post-canon shikatema. If it's from a request, the original request will preface the fic.  
><em>_Feel free to leave a review.  
><em>_4572 days for Shikatema to become canon. _

**i. **_routine_

Fifteen years ago - to call this a routine, well, he would've laughed. He's smart. He's always been, and therefore he was realistic. This woman? She's a new brand of crazy, and one he never wanted to put up with.

Twelve years ago - to call this a routine, he would've thought about it. She's different. Different from any of the kunoichi he'd met in Konoha, and part of him wonders if it's her or if its Suna_. _Truthfully, by extension, he got to know her siblings well, and they were nothing like Konoha residents. And that intrigued him, made him wonder (for the pure reasons of speculation alone) what life would be like with them - with _her. _

Ten years ago - to call this a routine, well, he secretly had dreamt it. The first time he woke up from such a dream, he was astounded with himself. Any other person would've chalked it off as nonsensical, as perhaps something spurned upon because he'd spent the last evening with her, as he had with the day before, and the day before that. But that wasn't a choice - it was his _job_. He was just happy his _job _had been consistent, because out of all the troublesome women in his life, he could put up with her the most. (and that was all there was to it.)

Nine years ago - to call this a routine, he would've already known what was coming. He'd already thought of all the possibilities, in fact the nights he couldn't sleep, which was often - after the war, he'd lie in bed and just _think_. About her. He's not stupid - he knew he liked her. Why else would his dream show him her? Why else did the thought of being _with _her not seem as strange with every passing year? Because he secretly wanted it to be a routine - and probably had wanted it for at least the past 3 years. But what step does he take, how does he have it come to fruition?

It probably involved a ring.

That already seemed troublesome.

Seven years ago - to call this a routine, he could probably get used to the idea. After waking up in the bed too big to call his own, seeing her there, beside him, wasn't as surprising or as _revelation-y_ as he'd expected. No, she's there - with him. It was the start of their days together, the start of something he'd only dreamed about before.

And it truly was a routine, but it wasn't a _chore_. He woke up, as he does every day, to her beside him. He slipped out of his bed and groped the headside table for a hairtie. Ino'd always joked that the Nara Household never had a shortage of them, and since his marriage to the ex Sand Kunoichi, the amount of hairties only _increased_.

And it did, once more, after their first son was born.

He hated alarms. So did she, but she insisted on keeping them around - because they're both _adults _and aren't allowed to be late. But, as he's always done since he was a chuunin, he of course woke up before the alarm went off. There was still five minutes to go, so he figured he wouldn't wake his wife - five minutes of sleep was five minutes he had to himself.

Not that he particularly minded - just after having a child, being adviser to one the loudest Hokage yet, and being married to such a (captivatingly) troublesome woman, the few moments of silence within his own head was welcome.

So he messily gathered his hair into a loose ponytail - he'd fix it later, after he'd washed his face and brushed his teeth. He shook the sleep from his limbs and stumbled into their bathroom, running water and grabbing his tooth brush and toothpaste from the holder. He rubbed at his goatee - it was due for a trim, anyways.

He just began to brush his teeth when he heard the alarm go off in the room beside him, but he kept brushing anyways.

He heard her stir, the sound of their shared duvet being pushed aside. Her footsteps are light, growing steadily louder, and soon the door pushed open as he rubbed shaving cream on his face. He'll never be able her sleepy face, from the first time they'd slept together up until now. Her hair disheveled and her teal eyes cloudy with sleep, she trudged past him to their sink. He allowed her to nudge him to the side before she all but dunked her head under the faucet.

"Morning," he said around his toothbrush.

"Morning," she said back, her voice thick with sleep.

And that would be the beginning of his routine. Now, to call it as such, he'd accept it – and maybe be a little proud of it, too.


	2. more than enough

**ii. **_more than enough_

She was already in bed, turned to her side, not even snoring – and that's enough for him to know that she was in a deep sleep.

Part of him's disappointed: it's the first time he's seen her in a week, and yet the first chance he got when he's _finally _off work, she's already not even awake. Granted, it wasn't in his place to complain – his wife was a busy woman, and seeing as she was still working as a liason between the Leaf and Sand, her job was demanding. Especially since she still had ties with the Sand – being the Kazekage's sister and all – and truthfully, he wouldn't have it any other way. After all, she chose him, _him_, over everything else, and that's more than enough.

He toed his way around their bed, careful not to bump into the dresser perched precariously close to the corner of the mattress. He sat down on top of the duvet, lifting his legs up and resting against the pillows on his bed. She still smelled faintly of shampoo, her hair still damp and down, out of their usual tight style. He threaded his fingers through her tresses, a small part of him still amazed he doesn't need to hold back on his urges anymore; after several years of wanting so badly to touch her, he finally can.

She stirred slightly from his touch, turning her head toward him before she leaned briefly into his upturned palm. With a slow, almost exaggerated blink, she opened her eyes, teal still cloudy with fatigue. "Hey," she said, the greeting ghosting from her lips.

"Hey," he responded quietly. Her lips quirked into the briefest of smiles.

"You came home late today."

"Sorry, Naruto kept me back," he said as she groaned, sitting up. Blonde hair fell in waves against her back, her mouth opening to a yawn as she patted the space beside her in invitation.

"I _did _try to wait for you, but I was really tired. Besides, it not like I don't get to see you – so you could wait."

He snorted. "I did wait, for a week."

She laughed – and even all these years later, it still somehow managed to make his heart flutter. "Is that all? I swear you're going soft, Nara, you used to go much longer than that."

"Well sorry, _Nara_, you didn't tell me how long you'd be gone," he responded as she extended a pinky toward him, which he wrapped into his own. It didn't take long for them to move, so naturally, as his hand took hers. The physical contact was relieving to him, her touch comforting in ways he couldn't fathom. It just took this much – _this much – _to put him at ease. At a young age, he knew as soon as he'd fall, he'd fall _hard._ But he never expected to be this _whipped_, to love her so much that even something as simple as touching could calm him.

He lifted his arm and she, as natural as it was to breathe, found her spot against his chest. He anticipated the teases – the not-quite-bracing remarks concerning his racing heart. This time, she said nothing, instead content to keep her head and her ear against his skin.

Her fingers skim against his face, his jaw, his goatee. She liked to do this – to touch his face, for whatever reason. He didn't _mind _it though, for he knew they were both physical people and just _touching _was enough to convey everything to each other. Like how much she loved him, how much she'd missed him too, and hidden in her caresses, a bit of disdain.

Before he could ask, she lifted herself off him quite suddenly, her teal eyes smoldering as she stared quite challengingly into his own. "Also, Shikadai skipped _again_ – I thought I told you when I'd left that you _have _to make sure he goes to school –"

He groaned and she pushed a hand into his chest. "Relax Tem, I let him take the day off – they're not doing anything today." She pursed her lips disapprovingly, and any other ninja who'd ever seen the _pissed off Temari _face would've probably ran for the hills. But he was more than used to it, desensitized to his wife's blatant disapproval. "He's got a good head on his shoulders. He'll be fine if he misses a day."

She rolled her eyes. "Just because _you _could pass the tests without even lifting a finger, doesn't mean he can."

"No, it means he's inherited _both _of our brains." He chuckled. Of course, his wife would be one of the strictest women in Konoha – and she's not even native to it. And that meant of all people, their son would be the least fazed by her. Her eyes betrayed her pride for the briefest of moments, before her head returned to its proper spot against his chest.

"Just this time, I'll let him off, but I'm not letting him become a lazy ass like you."

His hand and fingers found their place back into her hair. And with each stroke, each heartbeat, he felt calmer than he had all week. "Too late," he said nonchalantly, and she growled playfully into his chest.

She lifted her head, and then her torso, her slim digits finding themselves on him again. It only took one glance into her eyes, one look into her glassy teal, before her hand curled into a fist, pulling the fabric of his shirt into it. With a tug, she had him sitting up and he didn't resist – the movement propelled him forward and their lips found each other.

He sighed into the kiss, his hands no longer hesitant as they tangle into her hair. Her own fingers found his ponytail, before she expertly took the hairtie out, his black hair coming loose against his back. He could feel her smiling against his lips, his name already ready on her tongue, each movement of her mouth comforting, thrilling, and _familiar_.

And it was more than enough to keep him happy, forever.


	3. when we met

_ [When Shikadai asks his parents how they met and his response/reaction to it]_

**iii. **_when we met  
><em>[ table talk (a) ]

His question would have been innocent, if no one knew the kid. But the two of them knew their son the best, and at his tone, Shikamaru and Temari both looked at each other.

"I'm not telling the story," Temari said quickly, and as if to prove her point, she shoved another forkful of food into her mouth.

Shikamaru sighed.

Truthfully, it was a long time ago, and he prefaced it that way. And of course, from across the table Shikadai rolled his eyes – trust his son to know when he was trying to stall. The same way Temari eyed him with a touch of contempt. So much for theatrics.

"When I met your mother, she tried to slice my head off."

That much wasn't a lie.

"I didn't think you two just ran into each other," Shikadai said with mild interest as he waved his fork around.

"Eat your broccoli," Temari said sternly. Her son gave her a quick look ofdisdain before sticking the piece that'd been speared on his fork into his mouth. After she was sure he swallowed, she turned to him. "Go on." He swore she's enjoying this.

He rolled around a grain of rice with his own fork, if only because he knew it'd piss off his wife. He entertained himself for another moment of two before he set his fork down. "Your mother kept thinking I was an idiot. Naturally, I showed her up."

Their son stared as Temari let out a cross between a laugh and a snort. "You tell yourself that, but _who _was the one who came to your rescue?" She turned to Shikadai, and he could've sworn his wife puffed out her chest ever-so-slightly. Of course, he knew what was coming. "He didn't even bother beating me. He just _forfeited _–"

"- I would've won, if I still had chakra." He interrupted mildly. "And either way, it's good I didn't use all of it because _what happened after –" _

"- _Details, _Shikamaru –"

"- Shikadai, after that your mother attacked our village –"

"- It was an _order_-"

"Mom, I want to hear the story," Shikadai deadpanned, and she froze in her tracks. Her lips curled into a frown and she resumed stabbing her chicken with her fork.

"Yes, Shikadai, when your mother and I met, she not only tried to cut my head off, she also tried to overtake the village," Shikamaru said plainly, eyeing his wife as the stabbing suddenly became more violent. Their son stared – truth be told, it wasn't the most romantic of meetings. Judging by how the poor piece of chicken now looked more like a sponge than food, he couldn't help but to smirk as he edged her on. "She was completely crazy. You've met Tenten, right? Your mother also beat the cr-"

"-Okay _yes _that all happened," she snapped, and Shikamaru almost choked on his own food when he saw how livid his wife was. "But you're forgetting that I saved your ass. I saved you. You were going to die by another sadistic bitch-"

"-Who wasn't you?"

"- Well, yes, but are you forgetting how screwed you were before I got there –"

"- I could've figured something out –"

"- Are you kidding me, are you forgetting you had a broken finger, let alone _no back up _because all your friends would've died if we didn't show up-"

"- Same with you, when Gaara was kidnapped, you're lucky I saved your hide because _you _were going to give up-"

Temari slammed her fork down, standing up. "Nara, you're not going to win this one."

He stood up too, gently placing the cutlery down. He couldn't help it, when he worked up his wife like this, some part of it _amused _him. More because he knew he'd win at the end, no matter how hard she tried to fight or deny it. He took a half step closer toward his wife, her head angling (quite cutely) upward to meet his gaze. Her eyes were smoldering, angry, and _hot_. Damn his wife was sexy when he worked her up like this.

He honestly didn't blame his son, as Shikadai stuffed the rest of his meal into his mouth, drained his cup of water, and slipped out of the kitchen as fast as he could.


	4. the real children

_I really like the idea of the new Nara parents being completely childish at times. _

.[::].

_[Shikadai accidentally discovering that he has an affinity with wind like his mom] _

**iv. **_the real children_

"Come _on_, Shikamaru, just one-"

"- Temari, I can't just _do that_ –

"- Are you kidding me, look, you have a whole _stack_ of them right there in front of you-"

Feeling as apprehensive as he usually did, Shikadai slid open the door to the kitchen. There was his mother and father, and truthfully, he wasn't very surprised. She leaned over him, one hand on the table, and he stared back, his position actually somewhat _defiant_.

He scratched the back of his head. "I'm gonna g-"

"Wait," his mother commanded, and Shikadai froze. From the corner of his eye, he could see his father sighing.

"Temari, be reasonable-"

But his mother shot him a withering look, and instead, with a flick of her finger, a sheet of paper came flying toward Shikadai. He blinked as the paper hit his hand, before falling limply to the side.

His parents stared.

"_Ha!" _Temari guffawed, and his mother puffed out her chest (as she often does, he noted), and she paraded over toward him. "Do you know what this means? _Do you?_"

Shikadai looked down to his feet. "The paper's in two," he deadpanned. But then his mother clapped both hands on his shoulder, making him jump slightly.

"_Exactly,_" she said proudly. She turned her head, her voice going from elated to sly. "Looks like your _oh so powerful Nara genes _only go as far as aesthetics," she exclaimed.

Normally, Shikadai expected his father to roll his eyes, laugh it off, do something that was much less of a reaction. But instead, he stood up with a surprising amount of vigor, considering his character. "Wait, it could be that the paper took _your _chakra, and not his-"

His mother's eyes narrowed. "No way, you're not weaseling your way out of this one."

"Will _someone _explain what's going on?" Shikadai complained. And of course, the grip on his shoulders only tightened.

"Your mother thinks you have wind chakra," his father stated, and though his tone seemed disarmingly aloof, Shikadai knew him. And he could read that he was actually _interested. _

"He _does _have wind chakra," Temari said, her voice no longer excited, but more challenging. "If you deny it, let's do another test."

His father stared. "No, I don't think Naruto will be happy if I lose another sheet-"

"- What is this test?" Shikadai asked, his curiosity beating his usual attempts at impassiveness whenever his parents had their weird little not-really-arguments. His mother beamed – _beamed, _and that was terrifying on its own – before she marched up to his dad.

"He wants to know," she said.

"Yes, because you've prefaced it that way-"

"- You just don't want to admit our child might have _my _affinity and not yours."

Shikadai sighed. Suddenly, this weird fight-argument-thing made sense. His parents – they sometimes acted like they were still school kids. (He didn't dwell on the fact that he's _exactly _one of those school kids, too.)

And, as he predicted, his father's eyebrow twitched. "One more sheet can't hurt," he muttered. And with careful aptitude, he plucked one sheet between a pair of chopsticks. "Shikadai, can you focus some chakra to your hands?"

"Please," his mother added on, and her voice was so strangely _excited _that Shikadai was tempted to drain chakra out of his hands entirely.

Instead, he held his hands out, the sheet of white, innocent paper falling into his palms.

The paper sliced in half.

"I _told you!_" His mother triumphed, pumping the air with a fist as his dad stared incredulously. "_Yes_, that's another one for me!"

"Another what?" Shikadai asked, but his father's groan of contempt easily drowned out his voice. "Another _what?_" His parents had all but lost interest, seeing as his dad suddenly brought up his looks and _the same argument that he's a Nara_ blah blah blah.

Of course he's a Nara, why wouldn't he be?

But then his mother was gloating. "Nope, I can't hear you, he's got Suna in him," she sang, dancing out of his father's reach as he tried to reason louder that _he was winning_.

For all purposes forgotten, Shikadai couldn't help but to raise his eyes skyward.

God, his parents were such children at times.


	5. it's just three days

_[Request! Cause I need Temari back on her ninja duty cause she is just that badass she can be the coolest kunoichi mom: Temari is back on her missions and Shikadai is very upset and jealous about his mommy leaving him to go to work. And a very worried Shikamaru discovers his son can be as stubborn as his wife.]_

**v.** i_t's just three days_

"Make sure he has a lunch every morning."

"Okay."

She narrowed her eyes. "Well, actually, his lunches are already made – three of them. In the fridge. You just have to make sure he… brings them."

"I know."

"And that means he has to go to school," Temari said firmly. Just by her tone, Shikamaru could discern her disdain, and he didn't blame her. Even before his wife was back on _stable, out-of-town missions_, their son cut as many corners as he could when it came to school. And Shikamaru didn't _really _blame him for it, but apparently, _she _did.

Her eyes softened – and though the gesture was small, it spoke volumes. It was Temari _Nara_, quite possibly known as the cruelest kunoichi of both Suna _and_ Konoha, and heaven knows what will happen now that she's on actual missions again.

Shikamaru knew better than to speak up against it, though. After all, his wife had spent many a night complaining that she wanted to get _back on duty_, that she's more _useful out there than in here,_ that _she's tired of being confined in Konoha. _Her current desk job was not even close to being enough for the kunoichi, and he didn't blame her for it.

"I'm surprised you woke up, honestly," she said, her voice low, almost a tinge affectionate. That's enough for Shikamaru, honestly speaking. Just that hint of admiration, that twinge of adoration, spoke mountains about her and her love for him. He'd be the only one to understand that, and he'd be lying if he said wasn't proud of that.

Her fingers stray on his, each nail already clipped and devoid of nail polish – not that she wore it often, but she _did _on those off weeks when she was feeling moody. She tightened her obi and picked up her forehead protector – a Konoha logo, which in itself was a source of pride for him – opting instead to fasten it around her neck. Like old times.

"I will always wake up for you," Shikamaru stated quite plainly. She smirked at his words, memories simmering behind her teal eyes. She leaned in and gave him a swift peck on the cheek – the affection, once again, not unwelcome, but definitely only obvious seeing as she _was _going away for three days.

She pulled back, one finger still on the tip of his palms.

But she'd frozen all the same.

Her eyes didn't look the least bit concerned though – if not, a bit apologetic, as she slowly, stiffly, withdrew her hand away.

"Shikadai," she said commandingly, her tone suddenly shifting from warm to stern, "If you're going to use the shadow possession jutsu on me, at least have it be strong enough so I can't break through it."

And with those words, to Shikamaru's silent astonishment, his wife carefully – _rather easily – _twisted herself around to face their son. He stood at the doorway, his lip drawn back into a frown, his fingers clasped in the final seal of the Nara jutsu.

Shikamaru sighed. "Son, dispel it."

"No."

Shikamaru sighed once more.

"It's not nice to use shadow possession on your mother."

The look his son gave was surprisingly reminiscent of both his wife _and _his mom. Of course, this would be the kind of kid he'd be _blessed _with. "I'm not dispelling it," Shikadai said stubbornly.

"You don't have to," Temari said, her voice both dismissive and almost disapproving. "He can't hold me for very long." She lifted her gaze toward Shikadai, her tone suddenly patient. "You woke up early," she said conversationally.

He ignored her observation, instead his teal-tinted eyes (so much like his mother's, Shikamaru couldn't help but to think) narrowed, almost accusingly. He couldn't help but to catch his wife's sideglance – of course they'd also have a kid who was just as bad at words, at expressing their emotions, as they are.

But it didn't mean they didn't understand his intentions.

"Your mom will be back in three days," Shikamaru said, trying to stop is voice from being dismissive. But his son, for all purposes, had ignored him, only keeping his gaze fixed on Temari.

The woman sighed and rolled her shoulder once, and just the freedom of her mobility spoke volumes to her own power. "Shikadai, your father could never hold me with his shadow jutsu, and nor can you."

He has no idea how his wife does it, for the wordsthat should in no means have been graceful, nice, or even _bracing_, was enough to make their son dispel the jutsu. It didn't, however, alleviate the deep lines that had (already) creased Shikadai's forehead, nor the way his lips were taut and pouting even when Temari sighed and stalked over to her son.

"It's three days Shikadai, be practical about it."

Shikamaru couldn't help but to roll his eyes skyward. Their kid must be forever messed up in terms of consolations, considering _those _were the words that broke their son – and he flung his arms around his mother, by all means _groveling_.

"Yes yes," Temari said, thankfully not as awkward-sounding as she was when she'd _first _had to comfort their child. "Shi- Dad will make sure you're taken care of, and you won't miss me." She picked up Shikadai rather easily, swinging him around so she could face him. Her eyes were narrow, as if daring him to laugh – not that he would.

"Be safe," their son said into her obi.

A small gentle smile spread on her lips – a smile that, he realized, was mostly reserved for Shikadai.

Shikamaru knew it was irrational, but he could somewhat understand why their child had been jealous – jealous that her attention was going elsewhere.

Temari was an amazing woman, indeed.

She buried her head into the nook of her son's neck, planting the quickest of kisses behind his ear. "Be good. _Listen _to your dad. He'll tell me everything." And she shot him a deadly look, to which he shrugged and gave a small, helpless smile to. "Now I'm going to go kick some asses."

And with that, she placed Shikadai on the floor. She crossed the room in two strides, giving Shikamaru a generous kiss, whispered goodbye, and was out the door.

The two remaining Naras looked at each other.

"You heard the woman, school's in an hour."

Shikadai threw him another look that reminded him, once more, of his wife – and of his mother.

Shikamaru fought the sigh at his lips, trying to channel Temari, and how easily she managed to keep Shikadai in line.

Eh, he'd probably never get that part down.


	6. adult fear

_Shikamaru - Character study._

_a bit of angst for your tastebuds._

**vi. **_adult fear_

He was freaking out again.

Well, not so much _freak out _than _worry_, but worrying is something foreign to him. He can usually think things through – be rational, strategize, and avoid any potential pitfalls that would _lead_ to worry. But here, no matter how much he tried, he knew that this worry was inescapable.

It happened in the moments she were gone; the times his wife had stepped out to run an errand. But now it happened as frequently as she left the room. As long as he's given time to _think_, it would all come rushing back.

It started as an inkling, a thought in hindsight as soon as she'd delivered the news. There was genuine joy, of course, and surprise, but that little seed had been planted within the first _second_ following. But then he got to think about it that night, after she'd fallen asleep in the nook of his arm – more affection than she's ever willing to show, normally.

This was an entirely different case.

Which is also why he was _worrying_.

But to have her on his arm – that was enough to allow his mind to block out the thoughts.

Then, as time went on, he'd started to _resent_ it.

Resent it because, logically, _this _was the cause of his worry, of his inadequacy, of his fear of never being able to be his dad, or Asuma. Resent it because, without it, he wouldn't _need _to be compared to the two father figures he'd lost in the war. Resent it because it _brought forth _that word – _father _– and he just wasn't ready, will never _be _ready to be one. Resent it because how could he be a _good _one? How could he succeed where his father may have slacked – how could he begin to emulate what an _amazing person _Asuma was to him; how his sensei was there every time he needed him?

How could he compare?

Logically, if he had to _avoid _the pitfall that would lead to these worries, it was it – _him_, as Temari had corrected him one day. And it was stupid, so _stupid_, because _he'd_ be the new king, the reason he survived and protected the village.

As much as he believed it, he couldn't help but to also _blame _him.

And all _he _was, was an innocent little baby in Temari's belly.

He could tell she was concerned, but how does he say anything without getting the blunt end of her anger? _We've been trying for a while, now, _she'd chide – if not yell. Call him a coward, resent him the same way he resented their baby.

No.

This was something he had to deal with on his _own_.

And, as he laid in bed alone, he couldn't help but to worry. _Worry – _this wasn't freaking out. He just _worried – _worried about what he should say to their son, how he should raise him. Should he be nearly as neglectful as his father? Or caring and kind as Asuma? How could he even ask for advice, if they both weren't here? _God, _he wished they were here – guiding him, giving him advice, being the mentors he didn't realize he needed, nearly ten years after their deaths.

He missed them. He needed their advice. He _needed their help, needed their comfort, needed them –_

And he doesn't realize that a tear had rolled down his cheek, because of all fucking times to be a crybaby, it's _now_, and he can't help but to shake a little as another one escaped him.

The light flickered on.

"I know you Naras like to hang out in the dark, but you never said anything about _wallowing in self-pity _in it, too," Temari said from the doorway, her tongue sharp but her tone almost bracing.

But he could barely hear her, nor register as she slid into the bed beside him. She let him sniffle and stem his tears, surprisingly patiently – but it's not the first time she's waited out his crying. Normally she'd tease him, but this time, her eyes were sympathetic.

He felt a hand on his cheek – a question, asking for permission, before he finally opened his eyes.

And all he could focus on were her brilliant teal, her swollen belly in his peripherals, but otherwise not what mattered. What mattered was _her_, and just being in her presence made the anxiety go away.

Her arms wrapped around his head, and before he knew it, she'd pulled him into her embrace. The gesture was very… maternal, he realized, but it was comforting all the same. Every inhale, every touch – it was so _Temari. _And it was all he needed.

"You've already got the mothering part down," he said into her chest. She only _hmm'd_ in thought, the sound making her chest vibrate lazily.

"You're going to be a good father, Shikamaru," she replied.

He closed his eyes.

Her fingers began to thread through his hair, taking out the spiked ponytail, his hair falling back in waves.

"You're not alone in this, remember? You can be the good cop, I'll be the bad cop."

He couldn't help but to snort a little.

As long as he was with Temari, his worries _always _went away.


	7. what we see in each other

_Collections within this will be denoted by letter names. One of the collections that I've decided to label within this anthology are situations where the entire family discussing things over dinner. So far, the two in this collection had been things in the past. Those ones are related; they continue after each other._

_The first [table talk] drabble is [when we met]._

_[Shikadai asks his parents how they fell in love (because we are all shikatema trash)]_

**vii. **_what we see in each other  
><em>[table talk (b) ]

He'd phrased it in a different manner than he probably should've, not quite _how they fell in love_ but what the _hell _they saw in each other. Judging by the looks his parents exchanged, Shikadai wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"You like to ask the strange questions over dinner, don't you," his father breathed, his tone not quite condescending, but amused. He then turned to his wife, dark eyebrows raised. "Since I had the pleasure to, last time…"

His mother took a very liberal gulp of tea, and his father suddenly winced- Shikadai knew nothing of the cause, instead resorting to prodding his asparagus.

And then she set her glass down.

"Why do you ask?" Her voice is testy, and Shikadai knew his mother well enough to know it was an aversion. _Why _was it such a big deal for him to ask what his parents even _saw _in each other?

He shrugged. "I just want to know."

"Want to_ know_," Temari repeated slowly, her tone unbelieving, but it wasn't until his father coughed, that she sighed and set down her fork.

"Well, we met – at the chuunin exams, if you remember."

"Where you tried to slice dad in half?"

"Something like that," she said, and though her voice is still unamused, the corner of her lip twitched upwards. His father sighed. Shikadai set his own cutlery down - he personally liked it best when his mother told stories, often because of the reaction his dad gave.

He could've sworn his mother told some of the stories on _purpose_.

"I really thought your dad was an idiot. Then he surprised me." She stated that sentence as facts, and for a minute, her eyes darted to her husband, as if daring him to disagree. He didn't.

Shikadai stared. He didn't have to look under the table to know his parents have started to _touch – _that is, holding hands; or a hand on the other's thigh, something that was so _stereotypical _of his parents.

And then his mother took her time to cut herself another portion of pork, chewing derisively before she swallowed. "And then we started to go on missions together. Actually, I had to rescue him. And then we ended up going on joint missions together, to smooth over the alliance between Suna and Konoha."

Shikadai had done his reading; and he knew not even two decades ago, the strongest shinobi alliance had been but two rival nations. It was nearly impossible to imagine a time when they weren't linked, when travel between one and the other could be done on a whim.

He still couldn't believe that _his parents_ were one of the causes behind the union; sure the Kages were almost the best of friends, but it was his parents marriage that _really_ sealed the deal. Many had whispered that the marriage was all for show – those who didn't know his parents at the time believed, and probably still _do_ believe, that their marriage was strictly political. But their close friends knew it was the last reason they were together.

His mother plunged on, though her voice was still, somehow, strictly on business mode. "Things happened. We spent time together. It wasn't fireworks, or anything you might hear about in books."

The answer was straight to the point – as much as he expected from his mum. And as he panned his gaze to his dad, he only looked mildly disinterested, taking another hearty bite of food and chewing thoroughly.

Shikadai dropped his gaze.

Although he got a straight answer, part of him couldn't help but to feel mildly disappointed.

* * *

><p>To be honest, he's not surprised by the light rapping on his door later that night.<p>

He could tell it was his dad, simply by the knock. It wasn't impatient, rushed – just a somewhat lazy double tap that still had authority to it.

And then his dad opened the door anyways.

"Your mom didn't answer your question."

Shikadai sat up. "No, she didn't."

The taller man sighed and slipped inside his room, preferring to lean against the wall. His posture was almost thoughtful, as if he, too, was trying to recall _exactly _what it was that attracted him to marry his wife in the first place.

After a moment's deliberation, he spoke.

"You heard about the Infinite Tsukiyomi, right?"

"We had to learn it in history," Shikadai replied, and it was all he needed to say, for his dad nodded sagely.

"Right. Well, before that, I'd grown fond of your mother. And don't ask me how – really, because I don't understand it, either." His dad paused, and before Shikadai could blink, a smile had spread on the older man's lips. It was a soft, gentle smile, one Shikadai'd seen on his dad's lips when his wife wasn't looking.

(He rolled his eyes every time he saw it from across the room.)

"It probably started when she'd saw me off. Actually, before that," he mused, his father's voice lower when it was lost in thought. "When she smiled."

"That's cheesy."

He chuckled, the sound not necessarily _new _to Shikadai, but still – surprising to him, all the same. "I guess it is, huh?" He smirked. "But your mother's amazing – strong, sarcastic, and can actually _challenge_ me from time to time. Ah, you'll understand when you're older."

Truth be told, seeing his father like this – it was all a bit too surreal for him. That wasn't to say Shikadai hadn't had a sneaking suspicion that his dad's apparent apathy was an act, but to hear him talk about his wife like that… it was a bit overwhelming.

Part of him truly wondered if his parents would ever get out of their honeymoon phase.

* * *

><p>What he <em>didn't <em>expect, was the impatient rapping of his door – two nights later.

Followed by his door blasting open devoid of his – or it's – own volition.

"I didn't answer you last night," said his mother from the doorway.

Shikadai shrugged. "You don't have to tell me."

"No, I do. I want you to understand exactly what happened, because sooner or later, it'll happen to you. Don't give me that face," she said, and if Shikadai wasn't used to his mother's strange method of teasing, her tone could've been mistaken for angry, cold, although she was anything but. His mum saw herself inside, plopping down comfortably at the foot of his bed.

"Your father is everything I said that dinner. An idiot. Crybaby." And then she faltered, her voice trailing off ever-so-slightly. "But he cares. Hell, he cares so much he'll _cry_. What kind of shinobi lets himself feel so much that he can't even speak?"

"But that's what caught my attention. In Suna – well, back then, we were all soldiers. It was a different mentality. But Shikamaru… he _feels_. And he's interesting. I never could read him," and then she let out a bit of a huff, "sometimes, I _still _can't. But he's loving, sweet, and, well – smart. That always helps."

His mother seemed lost in thought, talking more to herself than to him. _This _side of his mum, he hasn't really seen before. Her cheeks dusted red, her eyes clouded in memories.

(He reckoned they'd _never _get out of the honeymoon phase.)

"So why couldn't you tell dad?"

His mother's gaze suddenly refocused, and the flush is gone – faster than he could blink. "Your father would never let me live this down," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

And then she turned to him, her eyes suddenly sharp and her lips taut. "And if you tell him _any_ of this, I'm disowning you."

Ah, there was the mother he knew and loved.

Shikadai raised his hand, zipped his lips, and threw away the key.


	8. pet names

**xiii.** _Pet Names_

"Just sit down, dear."

It slipped out of him so easily, so quickly, that she almost missed it.

And it wasn't even meant in a sarcastic way, or at least she hoped. His eyes were drawn on the newspaper he had in front of him, his concentration all but focused on anything _but_ her. So if it was so easily_said_, does that mean he _thought_those names in his head?

She grimaced.

Petnames. Temari _hated_ petnames.

Because it reminded her of embarrassing, pre-adult, giggling teens. Romances that were only as shallow as a fingernail, filled with idiotic promises of an eternity together. And to have her _husband_ call her such, well, she was repulsed, to say the least.

And dear? _Dear? _Nevermind the fact it rhymed with his clan's signature animal, but it was so _foreign _to her that she _did _sit down, abruptly, and draw the book she had just an arms length away toward her. Flipping open the page, she retaliated, "Okay, _sweetie_."

Temari could see, from the corner of her eye, him freezing – the grip on his newspaper suddenly doubling.

"What?"

She fixed the book in front of her face. "You heard me, _sweetie._"

The newspaper rustled once. "Okay, _darling_."

"What did you call me?"

"Oh sorry, do you dislike _darling, darling_?"

He was probably getting some _sick_satisfaction out of this, she realized, and she bit her lip. "Whatever _babe_, pass the sugar."

And there was a pause, then the sound of the china sliding across their table cloth. "_Babe_ is the best you can do?" Was his voice, suddenly closer to her ear than she'd expected. "Come on, be more creative, _sugarplum._"

Temari dropped her book.

He was just a few inches away, leaning over their breakfast table with the biggest _shit eating grin _she'd ever seen on his face. She wanted nothing more than to wipe it off him, force him to swallow that stupid expression on his face because despite the stupid expression, his eyes were still sharp – knowing him, he probably has another _pet name _ready to go.

She glowered at him as she dunked half a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee. "As a matter of fact, I can do better –_snookums._"

He actually looked somewhat _offended_, the expression on his face almost broke her concentration. Her husband pulled back, the shit eating grin suddenly replaced by a small smirk. "Show me then, _sugarlips."_

The book forgotten and the coffee suddenly meaningless, she felt _much _more awake than she had ten minutes ago. "Are you _sure _this is the war you want to wage, _cuddlebum?_"

His façade, too, abandoned, Shikamaru all but threw aside his newspaper as his face resumed _that _face. The face he made when he was silently invested, when he was actually motivated to win a shogi match – but was still pretending to be apathetic.

But this was no _shogi _game.

"Definitely, _wumby dumby._"

"Are you using _fucking baby talk,_you _stallion_?"

He shrugged. "Changing it up. Also, close, wrong quadruped though –_cacti goddess."_

Her palms slammed the table as she stood up, rage and stubbornness fuelling her intentions. "_Excuse me, pineapple of my eye?"_

And there was that shit-eating grin again, the one that had her _reeling,_probably because she was too stubborn to admit her ideas were starting to die down.

"We can do this all day, _pigtail shmootsie-poo._"

"You know what, you _trashlord?"_

"That's an interesting petname there, _honey doll muffin bread."_

It was that _smile_, that smile because he knew he won, that smile that_taunted and jeered _at her that nearly – just nearly – made her swat their table aside, grab his collar, and all but snarl insults at his face. That is, until the door swung open, their son at the doorway.

Shikadai's eyes rolled from her, standing aggressively and cheeks blazing, to his father, sitting forward and eyes smoldering. And then he trudged around them, sitting down – unfazed- in the seat between them. "Mom, Dad, stop flirting. I need my lunch."

Those were the only words needed for her husband to crack another _shit eating grin_, as he leaned back with a satisfying groan.

Temari wanted all but to smack him in the face.

"Also mom," her son continued, unperturbed by the death glare she_continued _to shoot at her husband. "Trashlord isn't a word."

_"I know_," she seethed, using the last of her willpower to prevent herself from _clobbering _her husband, whose newspaper shield didn't disguise the sound of his snorting laughter.


	9. inevitable - shorts

_I have about 20 unreleased shorts sitting on tumblr that I write when prompted. Give me my blog a look or a follow, if you're also a tumblr user, and I'll probably eventually write one of your prompts, too. _

_That being said, I will generally release these shorts in pairs or triplets, depending on the subject matter. Each short is titled appropriately. _

* * *

><p><strong> ix. <strong>inevitable  
>(- <em>shorts)<em>

**a**. _Scars_

It happened sometimes, even all these years later, when he'd wake up because she'd managed to dislodge the arm he'd draped over her frame, as he did nightly, and he knew what that sign meant.

She wouldn't be _crying_, or sniffling, per se - but sometimes, she'd be stiff, stiffer than any board. Or other times, she'd be shaking. Both of which aren't good signs. One meant trauma from the war, the other would point toward her childhood.

Regardless of what it was, which _one _it was, her instinct was the same. To take it on by herself, to pretend nothing was wrong - to shoulder it all on her own.

He didn't touch her right away; the first time he'd attempted that, it ended with her struggling against him, her voice ripping into screams, her eyes wild and unfocused as she screeched, struggling against his grip that only grew tighter. No, he didn't even slide a finger down her arm, along the curve of her back.

They'd learned. They had learned overtime how to deal with their scars, what they had to say - what they had to _do_. And overtime, it lessened, nights of fitful sleep became fit_less_, and he could eventually wrap his arms around her as she snuggled into his chest.

But this - this hasn't happened in _months_, and to have her not against his chest felt strange. Cold.

This time, she was shaking.

He didn't ask if she was _okay_, because asking if she was _okay _implied that she _wasn't_, and in her state she would only get offended by the question. No, he waited until the shudders and twitches lessened.

And then he slid out of bed.

In his mind, he wanted to go warm her a glass of milk immediately. Leaving the room wasn't an option, as he'd found out once, when she'd be in that state. Instead, he toed his way around their mattress, lowering his haunches, then his stomach, arms, himself by her end of the bed. He rested his head on the mattress, watching as her eyebrows furrowed, only a bit of dampness on her cheek as her eyes squeezed shut.

He waited patiently.

And then her hand - hesitant, poised, ready to scurry away at any second - crept towards his own. It was clammy. But it found his fingers, before they grasped them in its grip.

"Sorry," she whispered, her voice hoarse as another twitch rippled through her body.

He, very carefully, maneuvered his fingers to properly grasp his hand. Of course Temari would apologize for appearing weak.

"I'm here," he responded, shifting his body so he could sit properly by her side.

Her eyes cracked open, the normally brilliant teal hazy as they found his own. He didn't bother sitting up, having his eyes level with hers allowed her to still feel in control of the situation.

Her grip tightened, as did his.

Her shoulders shook once more.

* * *

><p><strong>b.<strong> _Dare_

He didn't have to duck this time - it soared past his ear, shattering with an earsplitting crack. She heaved breaths across from him, her eyes brimming with tears which were anything but of _sadness. _Her entire frame shook, the rage evident in the strength of her fingers, the way that she stared at him, strong and defiant.

"_Go," _she said, her voice no longer shouting. Instead, it was final, deadly, _level-headed_, a sign only he knew too well as the last straw. "If you're going to leave then _get the fuck out. _I dare you."

He stared at her.

How - how could she even _think_ he'd leave her? How did she think he _could _leave her? He loved her too much - loved her so much it took his breath away, fogged his vision so all he could see was _her_. How could she go as far as to suggest - to imply - that he could just go? Pretend like nothing was there, that their bond _wasn't _there?

Their fight left them both panting, both on the edge of their guard, and her gaze is so deadly he _knew _it was a defense.

He tried to fight the tear in his eye but he couldn't help it- because he was Shikamaru Nara and a crybaby and when they fight he'd find himself tearing up at the thought of separation, and now was no different. He swallowed, feeling a lump swell with it, and he raised his chin to meet hers.

"I'm not leaving."

She howled - _howled - _as he took two strides toward her. She tried to fight him as he put his arms around her, encircling her all-too-familiar frame in his arms, around the swell of her stomach. She tried to shake him off but it only made his grip stronger, and after another moments of futile struggle she fell limp, her howl dimming to a mewl and then a sob, then a small hiccup as he felt moisture splash against her cheek. He swallowed back his own tears, one hand hesitantly raising to find her hair.

She was his everything - and a baby wasn't going to change that.

"I'm _never _leaving."


	10. idle distractions

**x.** _Idle Distractions_

She was engrossed in her work, pouring over her paperwork with steadfast concentration. Her eyes were screwed up in effort, her forehead creased into deep lines. She spun the pen like a baton along her forefinger, the cap of which in her mouth, bobbing up and down as she read.

He watched her from across the table, not _frustrated _but frustrated by the stagnancy. He had no one to blame, either; since returning from her pregnancy leave she had a lot of work to catch up on. Between the baby and the work and everything else, he knew it was selfish to demand attention from her.

But as her foot jiggled against the ground, filling the silence in the kitchen with her rhythmic tapping, he couldn't help but desire her attention. Even if it were for a second. Even if she would fix her teal eyes upon him, and not on anything _but _him.

It was selfish. It was something she wouldn't condone. But that's why he did it.

He scooted his chair back and walked around their table, asking offhandedly if she wanted a glass of water. He was met with expected silence – he knew the answer anyways. He filled two glasses, reaching over her shoulder to place the water close to her hand.

And then he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

She turned to him quickly – he had strategically placed the water on the _inside _of her hand so she didn't knock it over – and her eyes narrowed.

"What was that for?"

He shrugged, quirking an eyebrow skyward, before taking a sip of his own glass in response.

She tried to frown, she truly did, but her grimace was lacking its usual edge. With a grumble, she turned back around and continued to write.

He gave her another five minutes before he smirked, leaned in, and pecked her other cheek.

She slammed the pencil down. "Are you going to keep _kissing _me?" she shot, though once more her words were probably not _quite _as scathing as she would've liked. He could tell by her face, the way her lip wasn't _quite _as dead-set, scowl not quite as deep as he knew it to be.

He smirked in response.

.

She was on the couch this time, binder nestled in her lap, the end of a pen clamped between her teeth.

Her eyes darted across the page. Occasionally her pen would circle something, scratch something out, scribble something down. Her lip curled, and curled further as she skimmed through more pages. He plopped down beside her; she gave no hint of acknowledgement as he rolled his shoulder back and took a glance over her left arm.

He anticipated some kind of rebuttal, if not a physical hand against his cheek to push him away, or a verbal lashing reprimanding, perhaps, his hot breath against her body. But none came, and for a second he felt a tad disappointed; unsatisfied.

Her work looked boring. Meticulous. Numbers- figures he didn't quite understand upon a glance and didn't bother trying to decipher. She didn't even move to accommodate his gaze. Her straw hair brushed his cheek and her arm still obscured half of the binder. He frowned.

And as she turned the page, the back of her hand hit his chin.

He retaliated by planting a kiss on it.

This time, there was no reaction. Upon turning, her eyes remained carefully fixed on the page. He frowned.

He went for her hand again, but it raised, twisting quickly and trapping his mouth.

She gave him a pointed glare.

He pressed his lips against her palm.

Her face was unimpressed. "Kissing me _again_?"

He smirked in response.

.

It wasn't work in front her, but a letter; the pen meeting her lips once more, her fingers drumming the table as she stared in front of her.

He didn't have to ask to know who it was addressed to. Any time she was writing for anything _other _than her work, it was for her brothers. Sure enough, a long arduous letter lay in front of her, one page filled with her elegant script, the other halfway through.

She hunched ever more severely, her nose growing closer to the paper. He knew better than to read her writing; knew better than to pry into her affairs. And normally, he allowed her to write. He'd leave her undisturbed. But this time, he felt differently. He wasn't naïve to question why he felt the impulse, he just _liked _to rattle her, liked to drive her up the wall.

He placed a kiss on the crown of her head.

He ignored the bristles of her hair, took a bit of pride as she could feel her stiffen, before she kept writing.

Perfect.

So he planted another. And another. And one more.

And then the brushed his lips along her cheek.

She slammed the pencil down. Her cheeks were only faintly dusted red, but her eyes danced liquid fire as she stood up, a hand flying to her hip. "_Really_, Shikamaru? You can't wait until I'm done?"

Her stance was livid, _challenging_, her face not embarrassed but _angry_, and there was some juvenile satisfaction that he drew from her expression. He smiled and drew his arms around her frame, pulling her closer toward him. He leaned in but she shoved her hand into his face, catching his cheek and twisting it away from her.

After the second of surprise, he couldn't help but to sigh.

He couldn't see her face, but her voice was unimpressed. "You really thought I'd kiss you now?"

He smirked in response.

.

He stood over the stove. The wok sizzled satisfyingly, their dinner eliciting a mouth-watering aroma. He added the vegetables in, the snaps and crackles renewed as they joined the mix. He lowered the heat to a lower simmer, letting the food stew a bit before he began to move it again.

He heard it then, her lithe footsteps as she tried to sneak up on him. She wasn't really trying – but that was the point, because _he _didn't try either that time.

She sidled up to him, and he couldn't discern her expression as she glanced into the wok.

"Smells good."

He didn't blink, didn't turn to acknowledge her. Instead, he reached over and added in the minced garlic.

She wasn't exactly satisfied with that. And so she _tried _to distract him with a kiss on his cheek.

Except he caught it with his lips.

They stayed for several moments longer, and he eventually dropped his chopsticks and wrapped his arms around her. She groaned against him, her breath blowing into his, before she finally pulled away, breathless yet at the same time, somewhat unimpressed. "I hate you," she breathed, her cheeks puffing.

He smirked in response.


	11. Sleep Deprivation

_This one is a little different than the others, it takes place a bit before canon._

**xi. **_Sleep Deprivation_

She wasn't tired.

It wasn't fatigue that lagged her limbs, wasn't the lack of proper sleep that caused the vibrating in her bones and the tension in her body. She was hot - entirely too hot to lay beside him, covers on, pretending she didn't have racing thoughts through her mind. Her fingers danced a jig along her thighs, before they drew themselves in against her chest.

At least there was a breeze, even if it were a small gust of wind that played with her hair. Just the notion of it cracked her jaw open, but she bit down before she could yawn - because she _wasn't _tired, and she also couldn't sleep.

The sound of a shifting door _did _startle her, to her embarrassment, and maybe in a different state of mind she would've berated herself for memorizing the rhythm of his footstep. As if she didn't hear them nearly every day. As if she didn't listen for them as he crossed the threshold. As if she sometimes didn't feel as if her heart was lining up with each step he took.

And then it was beside her - a rustling, a shifting of fabric as he sat down. She waited for it then, a comment, a question, even a groan, but none came. Temari caved first. She gave a half-glance to the side, and maybe - in her sleep deprived state - she thought, for those fleeting seconds, that he was beautiful.

His skin had always been a tinge pale, even by Konoha standards. It was a different fairness than, say, Gaara's - where her family had brown and gold, his undertones were a pale pink. His cheeks only grew moreso as he adjusted to the temperature, and she could see by the way the hint of lean muscle rolled underneath his skin that he had probably been under the blankets. That - and his current state of undress,

His eyes caught hers.

And they were clouded with sleep, the normally sharp brown gaze dulled a milky sheen instead. Framed with thick eyelashes, she'd always thought he had _pretty _eyes. Pretty - until he'd somehow manage to compliment _hers_, like glass - he'd say. Cool and refreshing. She didn't get it, especially when he smirked afterwards - like he'd won some game.

But there _wasn't_ a smirk on his lips, no usual playfulness that she could lose herself in. Just a question on his mind.

She turned away.

She wasn't tired.

A finger skated across her hand, just briefly - and the contact was like fire. Despite the cold, despite the numbness of her mind, it brought something back, awoke feeling in her hand.

He didn't speak. Perhaps he didn't need to. Or maybe he simply chose not to, and he was simply satisfied with touching her hand. It usually did the trick irregardless. So she let him; she let him play with her hand as she stared outward - and she saw a pond, a few trees, but nothing really. All she knew was his fingertip against her, the quiet inhales of his breath that had - at some point - lined up with her own.

And then he stopped. A digit lingered, just barely touching her ring finger - and the band around it.

Of course, of course he knew.

He didn't ask a question. He didn't accuse. But she could feel it all the same - could see it as if she were _actually looking at him. _His eyes focusing, the sleep clearing, and he realized that it was the ring.

Silence unfurled before them - different than before. Heavier. Slightly.

And then, he spoke,

"Are you not sleeping?"

'I'm not tired," she responded, almost immediately, and she registered for a second how her voice seemed weary - thick.

She felt him then, his arms first, as they snaked around her waist. The feathers of his breath, just along her neck. The feeling of his lips, against her cold and clammy skin.

She breathed in once, and was all too aware of how she shook.

He wouldn't ask. Of course he wouldn't. He didn't _need _to. And part of her isn't sure if she's happy about that or not.

"I know it's tomorrow."

"You're nervous," he responded.

She let the rest of the breath out. "Aren't you?"

He hesitated for a moment. His breathing slowed and a low hum thrummed from his neck. It was kind of nice, in hindsight, and for a minute she could truly relax in his arms.

"Yeah. I am. Our lives are about to change."

"You're being dramatic," she said, but the tease is lighthearted and she doesn't deny the truth in his words.

He chuckled lowly. She could feel it then, his lips pressing against her neck, in a lazy way she could only describe as being _Shikamaru. _There was probably a grin there, too. And then there was a faint rustling - the sound of him getting up, though his hand lingered on her shoulder.

"Whenever you're ready," he said easily - and she didn't miss the double meaning in his words.

She didn't know how long she sat there, after he'd gotten up and retreated back to his bed. But something about her heart had slowed, the nervous clamminess reduced to just a light sweat that the cold had dried. The buzzing in her heart calmed, and her eyes suddenly felt heavy.

The ring on her finger no longer felt heavy - foreign, but right.

As she slid the door aside, she could still feel it all. It was still there. It probably wasn't about to go away, either.

But seeing him there, with his black hair sticking from the covers, the absence of snoring a hint that, perhaps he - too, was feeling as nervous as she was, was all comforting to her.

Temari swore she wasn't tired.

But as soon as her head hit the covers, she had one of the best sleeps she'd had in a long while.


End file.
